


Red Letter Day

by drvology



Category: Batman (Unspecified canon), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick is missing. Batman has riddles, clues & indefatigable determination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Letter Day

**Author's Note:**

> B:TAS is my favorite Batverse incarnation; it's become my default setting when imagining the characters &c. That established, I think the fic I write can be aptly labeled 'canon & time nonspecific.'  
> → Written in an hour for 60_minute_fics challenge group @ LJ || 092906 Prompt #2 _Riddle Me This, Batman -- Make a riddle or mystery of some kind the center focus._

Batman studied the complex pattern of cut-paper squares.

Some could be shuffled around, put into the place of another. Some only fit one way. Some blue, some yellow, one red.

He'd already discarded _three_. Long past the idea of _primary_. The paper itself had nothing to do with this.

Batman fingered the squares. He pushed them around on the workstation, thought of them as mosaic tiles, as cells, as pixels. They were each an inch, perfect, exactly square. Most of the squares were blue. A lesser number of yellow. Only one red.

Significances- signifiers- signified.

At the moment, Batman had no idea at all.

Alfred had found the envelope, left on the imposing doorstep of the Manor. Nondescript manila, unmarked, tucked closed but not sealed. It had been somewhat damp to the touch, cold, there long enough to be fully seeped with the autumn early morning, most likely dropped there under cover of the night before.

The night before when it'd been only Batman and Robin prowling the streets of Gotham because Nightwing--Dick--had already been missing for two days.

Batman resisted crumpling the squares into a fist.

 _I am something that nothing is, but yet I have a name.  
I am sometimes tall and sometimes short.  
I join your talks; I join your sport,  
And I play in every game.  
What am I?_

Alfred and Tim had answered that one almost immediately--a shadow, easy and familiar enough--said in unison after Bruce had read it aloud to them in the library. He'd held the card in his hand, single letters from red, blue, yellow papers, clipped carefully, pasted one after the other to form the words. He'd studied it, tallied _three, primary, paper_ , thrown the card into the fire and watched it burn knowing nothing more would be learned from it.

That had been the first day. The first riddle. The telltale green and purple and question mark dance. The given cliche of ransom and go after the billionaire where it hurts.

It'd been a blur of holding his panic in check, replaced with cold precision and logical deductions and severity of purpose, and nonstop work without the benefit of sleep or even rest ever since.

Alfred and Tim were doing all they could. Barbara had come and gone, took all Bruce knew with her to police headquarters, had been chasing leads and angles from there. Bruce was trying not to go crazy.

The red square fit in the center of a block of blue ones. Fitted to their sides the yellow squares marched down like stair-steps. Batman turned the shape, stared at the red square, wondered if it marked the spot--what spot--if this was a map or a grid or city blocks.

He remembered teaching Dick tetrahedrons were not quadrilaterals. He remembered Dick not liking that, at all.

Batman smiled fondly, lifted the red square free and held it near his chin, flicked its edge with his thumb. There were 190 squares. There were 190 planned blocks north to south that comprised the main portion of Gotham proper, before it had spread and morphed into a sprawling city. That didn't explain why some were blue, some yellow, one red.

He'd put a map of Gotham in the light table, brought all the little squares along, studied his city and placed the squares. Tried to line the waterways and the harbor with blue squares. Tried to use the yellow ones in the middle. Tried to see the red square as a building, as a beacon, as Dick where are you.

There were too many blue. Not enough yellow. That one, single, taunting red.

Tim had wondered if the squares were some sort of count, representative numbers of this or that, a census. Alfred had suggested using the squares to build something--a model or a shape--one of the skyscrapers downtown, for example.

For all that nothing made sense. Nothing came from the squares.

Batman had punched the info into the computer, set it churning and crunching over all potential permutations of their postulations. So far it'd been an impressive array: two dimensional pictures, three dimensional figures, a calendar for the portion of the year 1897.

None of it got him any closer to solving the riddle or finding Dick.

"Batman?"

He didn't turn, flicked the red square again, grunted a short noise of acknowledgment.

"Babs called. Might be nothing but--late night activity has been reported in the old textile district, between the wharf and the industrial factories, in some of the abandoned buildings there. A black and white checked it out, didn't find anything. But. I don't know. Maybe we should go look?"

Batman twisted his wrist. He tilted his fingers, red paper square thin caught between them, held in front of his face. He looked at it, simple, plain, such a clean cut.

The red paper square fluttered to the floor, back forth slow lazy drop, swirled then swept away at the swing of Batman's cape.

"In the Batmobile. Now."

Robin didn't ask him, anything. Not where they were going, why he was suddenly so determined, what about the red paper square. They ran in tandem, slipped into the Batmobile, sped away too fast for the inner-cave track. Robin cued the comm system and explained short to Alfred they were off. Alfred merely nodded-- _Yes good then Sir_ \--didn't ask anything more than Robin had.

Batman punished the steering wheel and the engine, pushed the Mobile harder and harder pedal to the floor. It streaked around mountain curves, sprinted down the center line of the deserted bay bridge, snapped into alleyways and city streets.

They came to an abrupt halt, brakes barely able to leash the full-powered strength of the Batmobile's turbines. The top lifted, shifted back, and Batman boosted up and over, hit the ground running. Robin was right there, kept stride at his heels.

He ducked into a nearby dark close, factory/warehouse on either side, grapple gun already in hand. Batman grabbed Robin and fired and they lifted, flew a tracing arc over empty lots then landed smooth on a crumbled asphalt and tar rooftop.

"There." Batman pointed at a skylight.

Robin nodded, feet swift and sure, settled next to it. By the time Batman was at his side, grapple gun once again at his belt, Robin had the rusted lock popped and they creaked the glass dome top open, the squeal of its hinge loud and grating in the silent stillness of this nighttime deserted expanse of concrete and brick.

Batman went down first, no hesitation, cape spread like the wings they were as he glided to the floor. He landed and didn't look up, didn't wait for Robin. Instead he walked low, alert, hands out ready to fight, senses on overdrive. Every nerve tingled and his breath was controlled--would have been short and fast if not for that ability--as his eyes restlessly searched.

Robin took the floor beneath this one, would skip and take three down after that, and they'd search that way, either-or even-odd, until whatever Batman had brought them here to get had been found.

Nothing on the top floor and Batman thought about that red square. He pried open the freight elevator shaft, used the cable to zipline him down another two floors. He could hear Robin above him, now, almost-silent footfalls. His eyes had adjusted fully to the dark interior and dressforms and workbenches loomed in the dim, close-quarter rooms.

It stank, musty old fabric and dust, machine oil and mold. Batman paid no heed, barely had time or care to notice.

He was honed in on a back doorway, spark-shine of a brand new silver padlock glinting in the half-slant yellow beam of a nearby streetlamp.

The door gave after three kicks, rotten wood pulled away long before that lock would break. He didn't care about finessing the tumblers or keeping quiet or salvaging evidence.

"Dick?"

Batman entered the room, what once had been a tiny office, fell to his knees in a cloud-muffle of that damned cover everything dust. He produced a slip-sharp knife, cut the ties around Dick's wrists and ankles. Batman eased Dick's legs to straighten, kneaded with his fingers to encourage bloodflow and sensation.

Dick's only answer was a wince and a groan; his lashes fluttered and his eyes didn't open, but he was definitely, beautifully, alive.

* * *

"So. The red square was the linchpin?" Dick smiled into his tea, snuggled closer into Bruce.

Alfred threw another blanket over them, tucked it at Dick's feet and shoulders, patted once soft then made off to putter around the den, pretending to dust.

Tim was on his back in front of the fire on a stack of old and comfy quilts, sleepy satisfied smile, arms and legs wide in well-earned relaxation and relief.

Babs couldn't make it but she'd talked to Dick on the phone, reassured herself, said _awright!_ then set to putting together all the necessary details to help ensure the Riddler remained kept in Arkham for a good long while.

Bruce stroked his fingers through Dick's hair. It was shiny, silky, felt like Dick's hair again. Not dull and greasy and cold like when he'd found Dick. He felt under the blankets with his other hand, strong thigh and easy bend of flank and heartbeat pound vital cadence. Dick's hand under there with his--not the one balancing sips of tea and cookies--chased and caught his and their fingers laced, held tight. Dick's skin was warm, pliant, soft. Not cool and stiff and chafed like he'd been after almost three days in that abandoned factory.

The red paper square was in the top drawer of Bruce's wardrobe. He'd tucked it there after he'd tucked Dick into bed last night, after all the mess of police statements _yes I recognize that purple question mark--oh you mean it was the Riddler who had him? And it was Batman who rescued Dick? How nice, of course we're very grateful. What? He doesn't accept rewards? Well okay then all right if you're certain. Was there anything else?_ and questions answered and having Dick checked over by Leslie had been seen to. Then he'd slipped under the blankets, wrapped himself all around Dick from behind, finally slept with Dick steady and sound and with him, once more.

He'd woken at midday to kisses and caresses, Dick's smiles and Dick's heat, made love once fast made love once slow, then started over again. They'd only stumbled down to the kitchen a few hours ago, just after a quick shower and just in time for dinner, and now they were all in front of the fire, back, here, together. Everything where it should be.

Bruce smiled. "It wasn't the one square that tipped me off. It was the letters, and the squares."

Tim sighed. "Just tell us already. I'm tired and I wanna know and I'm not gonna keep guessing to _work this through_ or anything."

Dick laughed and Alfred snorted, delicately, made a face as if to blame a whiff of dust from one of the many priceless vases that littered the room.

He shook his head, half-shrugged, indulgent. "The letters and the squares were perfect. Too perfect. Something had to have cut them- and then Robin reported about the activity in the old textiles district."

"Diecutter. Sure. But how'd you know the exact building?" Dick's words were somewhat garbled by a mouthful of cookie.

"The first clue--shadow! Of course. Well done, Master Bruce."

Dick and Tim rolled their eyes and groaned, in unison.

Bruce hummed and played with Dick's hair, played with the fingers wound around his. Tim picked up a pillow and chucked it towards them; it bounced off Bruce's shoulder and spun through the air, glanced hollow-ring against the stately Ming dynasty urn nearly big enough to fit down into then bopped Alfred in the arm.

Dick gave Tim the thumbs-up.

Alfred retrieved the pillow and dusted it absently as he carried it back to Tim.

"The oldest and most distinguished men's haberdashery factory--sadly long out of business now--was Shadow Felt and Textiles." Alfred put the tip of the broom handle to his cheek. "Hmm, something about the wheft--or weave was it?--that gave the choice in name."

"Ahhh." Dick clucked his tongue. "Diecut shapes, sudden activity in that area, shadow. I get it now."

Tim's arms shot up, fingers spread wide. His grin deepened. "Oh! Yeah, okay. Cool."

One could almost see the gears fitting into place--not the solving of the riddle, just the solution of clues.

"Yes, so it would seem the red square was merely a," Alfred paused for effect, "red Herring."

Tim oofed and moaned like he'd been punched then threw the pillow again. This time it sailed unimpeded and hit Alfred square in the chest. Tim grinned, flopped full-spread back onto the quilts and didn't protest when the pillow came sailing back, thudding him gently upside the head.

Bruce laughed, low, smiled when Dick laughed with him. He leaned close, kissed Dick's temple, plucked away the empty teacup. Dick sighed and nuzzled into him, nearly asleep. He maintained slow strokes of that soft, silky hair, watched as Dick drifted and settled, safe in his arms.


End file.
